


Like a Drug

by CherriJubilee



Series: Like a Drug [1]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Blood Kink, Bondage, Burnplay, Character Death, Cock & Ball Torture, Edgeplay, Face-Fucking, Hate Sex, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Knifeplay, Love/Hate, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Denial, Psychological Torture, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sociopath, Verbal Abuse, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 14:11:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15753333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherriJubilee/pseuds/CherriJubilee
Summary: The Blu spy bites off a bit more than he can chew when he becomes involved with the Red sniper. What started off as a game turns into something much more toxic.This fic contains some heavy/graphic subjects. Read the tags before continuing.Otherwise, welcome to the shitshow!





	Like a Drug

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter doesn't contain anything of concern; just introducing the characters and environment. Pretty fluffy.  
> I'll label warnings for each chapter in the future.

"Marry me."

There he was. Blu's very own Engineer, dressed in only the finest combination of endothermic sweater gear and socks with sandals, sat down on one, bad knee. His short, golden blonde hair suggested an awful case of incessant hat-head, but his slightly-crooked smile couldn't have been any more sweet. His glimmering blue eyes sat steadily on the man before him, his hands outstretched to proudly display a lovely little number. It was a box, ruby red and flawless. With the turn of the wrist, the Engineer pried open the rim of the case, revealing the real treasure within. The recipient, Blu's Demoman, gasped and flung a hand to his chest, tears quickly threatening to spill over down his cheeks. This was too good to be true. It couldn't have been real.

5 whole chicken nuggets, and 1 tiny burnt nug.

The whole room was essentially howling with laughter. Their scout, for one, had slipped off of his spot on a crate, cushioned only by the thick padding of his puffy winter coat. He found himself curled up on the floor, clinging desperately to his chest as he tried to remember how to breathe without wheezing. As of now, he was no closer to this feat than he was ten minutes ago. The boy's cackling was nothing compared to the booming voice of the man beside him though. A taller, stronger, older man, but by no means any more mature. His veteran's attire hung open, wrinkled, and stained with something white-colored. Something creamy and pungent. That's right. _Mayonnaise._ Goes really good on fries! Which was only all the more delicious with a nice, cold beer! Or four, judging by the red complexion of his face. The stogie between his lips was hardly hanging on amidst his laughing, watching as their demoman struck the most feminine pose he could manage. It was a miracle the cigar hadn't caught the beard he's been growing all November. 

"Oh! I-I don't know what to say! I couldn't possibly accept such an offer!"

"Aw, c'mon, sweetheart! Don't be **chicken**."

The demoman scrunched his nose up quickly. Their Heavy groaned a long, singular note as he ran a hand down his face, the pyro on his other side sharing this pain. The scrawny mercenary on the floor instantly began screaming, a powerful cringe complimenting a pained smile. 

"I think we should see other people," announced the recipient as he turned on his heels and hastily began strutting toward the rest of the group. The entire Blu set roared at the sudden change of attitude, filling the whole room with pure, delighted noise. Engie just about dropped the fast food container as he began cackling at the response, just about coughing a lung out. Just as he was beginning to recover, their soldier stepped forward, plucking the smoldering product from his mouth and pointing it threateningly at the shorter man.

"You dare offer your nugs to another man?! _Traitor!_ You never offer your nugs to another man!"

"You - You mean," Engie grit through his teeth, smiling as wide as his face would let him, "that I'm a re **nug** ade?"

"Oh my _god,_ shut the fuck up, Emiel," the scout sobbed through a smile with a sort of squeak he couldn't prevent.

The men began to snicker away once more. No doubt Jamison could hear them all of the way across the facility, and would be screeching at them about it in no time. Doc was usually a fairly chill guy, but he was a man who appreciated his silence. Unfortunately, this wasn't something he could get very often when working with his group of mentally-teenage boys. It wasn't anything a little bitching couldn't fix, but only for about 10 minutes or so. How the medics a couple decades ago survived was beyond him.

Majority of the information was not disclosed to present hires, but it's been passed around that back when Austrailium was abundant, the mercenaries under Mann Co were immortal. The specifics of this vary from person to person, each with their own version of the rumor, but the most consist theory was that these mercenaries possessed the ability to come back to life through something called 'respawn.' Could you imagine? Soldiers charging head-first into battle, reduced to nothing but bloody little giblets, only to be brought back to perfect health in an instant. _It kept medics up at night._ An outstanding feat of science, of course, but an army of screaming teammates who can never truly die was a recipe for disaster. You'd have to be downright crazy yourself to have the mental capacity to withstand torture like that.

"Knock knock," purred the soft, French accent of none other than their spy. His warm, gray eyes scanned over each of his teammates with a silent smile, his comically thin mustache matching the curve. How long he had been standing there, lent up against the door frame, no one could say; but it was a spy's job to be stealthy at any rate, was it not? The soldier was the first to adress the spy's arrival, absolutely beaming.

"Ay, Lucien! Come to join us?"

"Mmm. Not quite," he replied cooly as he sauntered his way into the room, flinging a bright purple scarf over his shoulder. There was a playful sort of stride in his step as he approached the others. His considerably taller teammate slowly grew into a sly smirk. Not that he was particularly tall. Lucien was just short compared to the other spies. And all 8 other classes, for that matter. With maybe the exception of one scout out there.

"Bein' too loud?"

The spy came to a halt, taking the initiative to pull the sunglasses from the other's face, and proceeded to put them on himself. They almost looked too big on his shorter, softer features, but he had always been a fan of oversized eyewear. 

"Dear Jami requests that you tone it down. He's going to kick your ass."

"Good," the Soldier boomed with a wide grin, puffing out his chest with pride. "Let him! We will stand in the face of death and have no fear! We will shout to the heavens until our lungs give out! We must fight! For our right! tO PAAAA-"

His gracious speech was interrupted with a lovely book to the facial region, sadly. While the American made quick work to shield his face from any following attacks, an all but livid Swiss man in a floral-patterned button up stood half way through the doorway, his glasses sharply catching light glares. The snarl he wore made him look like something straight out of your nightmares.

"Max! Shut the **fuck! Up!** I can't even hear myself think! Could you quiet down for just five minutes, please?! We're scheduled to leave in an hour, and I have 3 weeks of reports to turn in by the end of the month!"

"Sounds like a you problem," Max muttered under his breath, flickering a soft smirk at the spy, who pressed his gloved hand against his lips in order to mask any escaping chortles. The two shared a quiet moment of amusement before Lucien happened to glance over his shoulder and catch a sub zero glare directly at him. Falling a couple shades paler, he snapped his attention forward again, clearing his throat loudly. He felt like he was thirteen again, getting in trouble with his father for slacking off on homework.

"Excusez-moi."

The medic let out a low growl of tired frustration, hanging his head against the door frame. The shadows accentuated the dark circles under his eyes. Lucien knit his brows at the sight, wondering to himself just when the last time their doc had gotten a full eight hours of sleep. Their heavy weapon's man, Ville, certainly wasn't taking care of him like a lot of heavies seemed to do. Either Jamison was too sharp to be around without having acquired a taste for it, or Ville was an old, impaired coot. Personally, Lucien thought it was both, but no one would accept the opinions of a 25 year old spy, barely grown out of his shpeehood. 

"Sorry, doc, didn't mean to interrupt you," Max sympathized in a cautious tone, digging deep for that awful bit of sobriety in his system. "We'll hush up."

Although the soldier only received a groan in response, the youngest of the team came to the rescue in no time. After pulling himself off the ground (and recovering from another sudden set of wheezing after watching the buff man be struck with a dictionary), the scout scoured through the cooler he had left nearby. Moments later, he was making his way over to the small group, tossing a medium brown bottle in his hand, lightly dripping with the condensation.

"Here, doc. Caramel espresso, just like ya like."

Peaking over his glasses lazily, the medic could easily have felt his heart break out of it's stone cold state for the boy, accepting the offering and breaking the seal as soon as he got his hands on it. For a man as worn out as he appeared, his attack on the bottle was questionably savage.

"Where we headin off to again," Scout chimed, seamlessly changing the subject for the two unlucky bastards who had decided to get on the doc's bad side so early today. "Highpass?"

"Harvest," Lucien replied, tucking his hands slowly behind his back. An uncommon frown sat very prominent on his face, which was never a good sign. "So you KNOW there is going to be mini sentries. Because, of course there is. Why the hell not?" Spy gradually began to scowl, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That damn engineer is going to be the death of me."

"Maybe they wouldn't be so bothersome if you actually did your job and sapped some buildings for once in your life," Jamison remarked coldly from behind his tasty, life-saving beverage. The Frenchman almost immediately turned on his heels to face the medical man, a defensive glare shooting right through that non-existent soul.

"There's no point in sapping the damn things, there will just be another one the second it breaks down! It's a never ending cycle of SUCK!"

"Then take a red-tape recorder or something. Buy yourself more time."

"I'm not letting that cornbread-breathing hick effect what weapons I bring! He doesn't deserve that power!"

"That pride of your's is going to get you killed someday," commented a comparably calm voice. Their sniper brushed pass his co-workers, and although remaining quite civil, had something that could only be described as concern in his tone. He was a handsome hitman, and that was simply the only way to describe it. Somewhere in his 40s probably. Such charm did very little for the childish pout his spy sent his way however.

"Non. It's going to make the knife in his back all the more satisfying, knowing he could not deter me," Lucien growled back, but lacking any solid salt in his tone. He knew that their sniper was arguably the most responsible out of the whole of them. Sniper's experience and generally chill nature defaulted him as the dad-away-from-dad. It was only natural considering that he was a dad of two already, and frequently showed off their pictures everywhere he went. Two young girls, 9 and 6, looked just like mom. All he needed to do was maintain a few moments of eye contact with the young spy over his tinted sunglasses before Lucien pulled his gaze away, stubbornly crossing his arms. The heavy feeling of eyes sat on Lucien, causing a lump to rise up in his throat. No amount of swallowing could make it go away. He attempted to roll his shoulders back to shake them off. It accomplished nothing. Normally Lucien was very good about not adhering to peer pressure, but the powers of a young daddy were a force to be reckoned with.

"I don't agree with you...but I'll do what I can, alright?"

The spy nearly jumped as a hand slipped onto his shoulder. Honestly, he couldn't be surprised to find that there was a soft smile at the other end of it all. There was nothing Lucien could have done to stop it from defusing his defensive attitude.

"And be safe?"

"And I'll be safe, Oscar." A quirky little smile popped back onto the Frenchman's lips, gesturing a hand up eccentrically. "After all, I'm a professional."

"Even professionals can slip up. I been at this for eight years, kiddo, and sometimes I still get tunnel vision from time to time. One mistake is all it takes, an' you can wind up dead. That's why you shouldn't play around. Real easy to die out here, no matter how good ya are."

"Play around," the Soldier inquired with a dramatic tone. One of his arms fell around the spy's shoulder, locking the two together. "You hear that, Lucci? Ol' Oscar thinks we play around!"

"Maybe because you play around," the sniper suggested with a slowly rising tone. The tall merc pursed his lips momentarily in thought, giving the purple fabric the spy wore a gentle flick, right up into the owner's face. "You more than Lucien, of course. But you're both pretty bad."

All the spy could do was refuse to hide a shit-eating grin and begin to chuckle. It wasn't nearly as French as you would have expected it to be. The Soldier didn't seem to find this quite as funny, he did not laugh, but he was biting back a guilty smirk at any rate. Surely he wasn't THAT bad. Setting a proud smile instead, Max retrieved his glasses from the thief, placing them back on his face dramatically.

"You mean I know when to lighten up? I know when we gotta be serious. Just 'cause we're in a war doesn't mean we gotta make ourselves miserable 24/7 though, dun it? There's enough misery to go around for everyone, let us have some fun when it ain't gonna hurt no one."

"A'right, lads, I'm gonna go get ready," the demoman announced as he left the room, shortly followed by the medic, who looked a little more tolerable of the world now. The concept hit Scout like a brick, who shuffled to get out of the room as fast as possible, knocking into Oscar on his way.

"No rush, Sean, we still got an hour to go. Won't take that long to get set to go."

"I-I forgot some things," he hollered back, his tone dripping with almost panic, to the point he didn't so much as turn back to explain himself to the sniper. Sandal dad himself chuckled at the scrawny boy sprinting down the hall way, casting a quick glance to those still remaining.

"That would be smart. I should 'prolly start packin up my metal..." Emiel gestured off to their pyro, Ely. Although the rail spike collars, fluffy night coat, and a respectless rubber glove over his mask didn't make him look particularly threatening, he was pretty good about keeping the spies and ubers away. As a certified 'pybro,' he and Emiel clicked very early on, and have been good friends ever since they were put on the same team. The pyro excused himself from their heavy to join the Engineer's side, ready to set off whenever he was as well. The Engie himself, however, paused a moment longer to blatantly look his Soldier up and down, gradually beginning to smile more. "An' you should do the same, Maximilian. You ain't even dressed yet."

"Of course I am! What're you talkin' about?"

"Ya got mayonnaise on your shirt?"

"I'm saving it for later."

Engie rolled his eyes at the Soldier, who sat in wait for a response he knew he would never get, satisfied with the poor quality of the joke he had just delivered. The most satisfying thing, however, was the quick smooch on the cheek he received from the intelligent man. Both men of helmets giggled nervously as Lucien imitated a gagging sound in response, requesting that they save such public displays of affection after the battle. After a few pats on the back, and one on the ass, Emiel hauled his flustered, fiery friend off down the hall the same way the other's had gone. Soldier smiled as he watched his partner leave, all the way down until the short man was no longer in his sight.

"Honestly," began the spy slyly, lighting up a fresh cigarette, "it's been 3 years, Max. Frankly, your sweetness is starting to make me sick. Just put a ring on it already."

The bearded man smirked at Lucien quietly for a moment or two, without saying so much as a word. Instead, his big ass hand landed atop the Frenchman's head. Lucien immediately furrowed his brow in disapproval. Sure enough, the all-American man ruffled up the clean, slick mass of hair, making it an utter mess. By the time he was finished, Lucien was glowering, and sitting with that same ridiculous cowlick in the back that jutted off to the right. The one that took him at least an hour to work down, specifically. It gave him something to work on as Max began to march down the same hall as the others, beside their sniper, and eventually followed by their Heavy.

"Go grab your balaclava, soldier. We leave at sixteen hundred hours."


End file.
